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Thursday, 8 October 2009


I have just read a story which won a competition twelve years ago. It is technically imperfect. There are some grammatical flaws and some odd syntax. However, this story proves that it is the fiction that matters.

It was so gripping, so warm and led me in so fast that the occasional lapse of punctuation ceased to bother me. I wanted to be right there in the house with the main character. In fact, I was the main character for a while. She had been so well-written that she came to life on the page. It was like a hand reaching out of the paper and pulling me in.

As is often the case, it was a simple tale and very little happened. The setting and characterisation were both so strong that the action, the simple giving and receiving of a gift, didn't have to be thrilling or earth-shattering.

These stories which exude warmth are special. So many, including mine, are filled with angst and misery. Often the element of humour is missing, yet it is so good to find yourself laughing out loud at a piece of fiction. It is rather an unexpected feeling when you come across a story that you read with a smile on your face. I must write more humorous tales!

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